The Queen for a Kingdom
by handsomelawbringer
Summary: The Hero of Ferelden is missing. With the Divine Conclave fast approaching, tension is mounting between the mages and templars, especially in Redcliffe where a whole host of rebel mages has taken refuge. However, with the Blight finally starting to take hold of her beloved King, the Warden Queen finds that her fate lies down a different path than that of the rest of Thedas.
1. Prologue

Game: Dragon Age

Pairing: Alistair/F!Cousland

Genre: Romance, Angst

Rating: T

The Queen for a Kingdom

~Prologue~

Black roots had sprouted beneath his eyes. They were faint, barely noticeable, but they were there nonetheless, ugly, seething lines of corruption crawling beneath what once had been healthy tan. It was only natural that the flesh that covered his bones would pale overtime, for he was nowhere near as active as he was in his youth—and at that he would have undoubtedly scoffed and said "In my youth? I'm still young! I barely look a day over twenty!"—his warm, sun-kissed skin dulling as years spent wrapped in regal garb and trapped indoors slipped by.

But this.

 _This_.

This was not natural.

The Warden Queen stood above her sleeping King, soft beams of moonlight slipping in through the partially cracked window of their bedroom to alight upon his broad, naked chest that rose and fell with each deep breath of solid slumber he took. Every ounce of self-control she possessed was required to keep her from reaching out and running her fingers through the golden hair that trailed down his abdomen. A thin blue sheet was lazily draped about his hips, hiding his lower body from sight, though the Warden Queen didn't need to remove it to know what laid beneath. She knew his body as well as he knew hers—the spots that tickled, the joints that ached when it rained, the muscles that needed massaging, the scars that crisscrossed and marked wounds of old.

Something moist and warm spilled from her nose. On reflex, she wiped the liquid away, the soft material of the glove adorning her long-fingered hands brushing against her pale skin to absorb the thick, dark glob. The dull throbbing of a migraine in remission came with it, her vision splitting and refocusing with frighteningly wild abandon.

Thick-soled boots carried her across their modestly furnished suite to the writing desk littered with stacks of books, rolls of scrolls, parchment paper, quill pens, ink bottles, a variety of poultices and tonics, and the wax stamp of the Theirin family's royal crest. Purposefully ignoring the tear-splattered letter that neatly lay atop a stack of grievances, laws, tariffs, and all other sorts of official things requiring a King's—or Queen's—touch, she grabbed a vial of deep red, threw back her head, and gulped it down in one swig.

A heady rush swept through her even as the last drop was falling from the glass rim, numbing the tips of her toes and fingers, chasing away the darkness. Leaning forward, she closed her eyes, let the cool breeze of a mild summer night brush her fevered forehead. The scent of roses danced beneath her nose, though she could not smell them. All she could smell was rot, death, decay, the goo that had begun to seep from her pores far too frequently for her taste, accompanied by the low, breathy chant of the damned.

Darkspawn blood.

The Blight.

Green eyes snapped open, bright with fiery determination.

It was essential that she move quickly. Unburdened by her Warden-Commander armor—strategically left at Vigil's Keep years ago for this very occasion—she would move swiftly and quietly in the black bodysuit lent to her by a certain fair Sister, creeping undetected through the halls of her own castle like a thief.

The irony of the situation was not lost on her; of the two classes she could have chosen, she had gone the brutal, uncaring, loud route of the warrior, a Berserker no less. The combined efforts of her rogue companions had been enough to teach her how to tiptoe stealthily in plain clothes, but not in full armor.

Casting her gaze out the window, she watched the guards that marched the grounds of the Royal Palace. It would be hard to slip by them; training by a familiar former-Crow had seen to that. But slip by them she would. She _had_ to.

Without a backwards glance, she strode towards the heavy wooden door that led to their chambers, making sure to tread lightly lest she wake her sleeping King as she moved across rug and stone. She was surprised at how easy it was—to leave him. Perhaps it would come later, the heartbreak, the longing. Perhaps it would remain at bay, her head overpowering her heart for a change.

Tugging her hood into place, she tucked her short-cropped red hair behind her ears. Sweat plastered her bangs to her forehead, a cold, clammy dread chilling her bones while her skin remained hot.

Her heart hammered in her chest as she pulled the door open, the hinges creaking in protest.

A groan issued behind her and she froze, waiting, waiting, waiting. For what, she wasn't sure. For him to wake up and call her back to bed, sleep fogging his brain and clouding his thinking, thus preventing the inquiry of, "What in the Maker's breath are you wearing?" For him to spring to his feet, claim that he had known of her plan all along and was hurt that she hadn't included him?

Neither of these things happened, and she loosed a breath from her tight lips. Instead, she heard the mattress groan as he shifted and mumbled incoherently, doubtless searching for her even as he remained oblivious to the world in sleep.

A lump in her throat spurred her into action, steeled her resolve. Heaving the great door open, she stormed into the hall boldly yet quietly. Torches lit her path, throwing her shadow across the red carpet lining the vacated passages she walked.

He would have gone with her. He would have abandoned his post, his people, for _her_. She couldn't allow that. Not when she had selfishly declared herself his consort all those years ago, when she had thrown logic and reason to the wind— _you can't give him children, you're a Grey Warden, you can't give him children, you're a Grey Warden, you can't give him children, you're a Grey Warden_ —and let love rule her thoughts, govern her actions, be her motivation. In doing so, she had doomed her homeland, subjected it once more to petty squabbles of who would inherit the throne once the barren Warden Queen and bastard King died.

And so gone was the Queen, for what she did now was not for her people, though help them in the long run it would, one way or another. If she was blessed with success, an heir would they receive, Eamon's concerns of keeping Ferelden in Theirin hands eased. If met with a crueler fate she was, well…

Gone was the Warden, for what she did now—though potentially beneficial yet devastating for the order of warriors this quest might prove to be—was not for her fellow cursed brethren, though their sufferings she longed to quell.

Gone was the Cousland, for this was not a journey of vengeance that she embarked upon, nor one that required someone of noble blood.

All that remained was Miri, once a young girl, now a grown woman, still caught in the throes of love, desperate to save the one she could not live without.


	2. Chapter 1

~1~

"The King is coming."

Those were the words that greeted Miri as she threw open the doors to Vigil's Keep, lightning flashing in the distance as the sky wept. It was a cold, dreary rain, the sort that chilled one to the bone and gave them the sort of sickness from which they did not recover.

Breath clouding in front of her thin, colorless lips, Miri cast off the damp hood that shadowed her face, Nathaniel Howe—the man that had spoken to her upon her arrival—jumped, no doubt startled by her ghastly appearance. Miri could only imagine what she looked like—little sleep, dark circles ringing eyes that had once been the deep green of an emerald but now resembled the sickly yellowish hue of dying grass, skin pale and stretched thin over blue-black veins.

"Andraste's tits," she heard Nathaniel gasp.

Purposefully ignoring the slip, the former Warden-Commander shook her hair loose, brow furrowing. "Of course he's coming. The fool." There was no animosity in her voice, no real bite, and if one had looked at her for a moment, just that one moment, they would have seen the hard lines brought on by her frown soften.

A flash of golden hair, the echo of innocent laughter, a hawk perched on a branch—

"Miri."

Miri shook her head, brought back to the present by Nathaniel's voice and the rapidly cooling trickle of something warm leaving her nose. Swiping her hand across her mouth, she wiped away the stark reminder of why she was there at Vigil's Keep, away from her beloved.

"When you said—I had no idea—" Nathaniel broke off abruptly, taking Miri's blood-covered gauntlet in his hands before she could tuck it away behind her back out of sight. His bright blue eyes narrowed in concern as he raised her hand up, exposing it to the light of the torches in the great hall. " _Maker_."

Miri fought the urge to squirm, not needing or wanting his sympathy. He would be suffering alongside her soon enough; he'd dealt with more Darkspawn in his life than she had, traveled farther into the Deep Roads, and Blight or not, she'd only really been exposed to the creatures during her brief travels and short stint as Warden-Commander afterwords. But Nathaniel...he'd spent the past decade hunting them while she'd been holed up in Denerim, sitting on a throne.

"Miri..."

Wrenching herself free of his grasp, refusing to meet his empathetic gaze, Miri headed in the direction that she remembered lead to the stables. She must have been correct, for it wasn't long before Nathaniel quietly fell in beside her, shortening his steps to match her smaller stride. It was a mite infuriating to Miri—she was walking as briskly as she could without running and waking the entire Keep with the clanking of her armor, yet the man still outpaced her—but she pushed the irritation aside, focused instead on the larger task that lay before her.

Despite knowing otherwise, that Anders had left long ago, that Justice was now one with him, Miri was surprised that she did not see Ser Pounce rounding a corner with the mage hot on his trail, Justice in turn following with a sort of fascination that such a large being would take comfort from something so small. She half-expected Sigrun to come chasing after the lot of them—cat, man and ghoul—bubbling to the brim with questions, Oghren's drunken bawl of a laugh ringing throughout the Keep's winding corridors.

A smile slipped across the Queen's face.

Velanna, of course, would be sitting in an alcove, somehow never far from the fray she tried so desperately to avoid, her nose in a book, a cross look on her face. Her perpetually down-turned mouth would pinch together unpleasantly, nostrils flaring in annoyance as the bumbling group of Ser Pounce, Anders, Justice and Sigrun wandered by, a caustic remark about their tomfoolery following them as they stumbled into the next room. And yet, when they were gone and the Dalish mage thought she was alone, she would grin to herself before snuggling up comfortably in the blanket Nathaniel had awkwardly gifted her, cheeks painted the lightest rose red.

This was all, of course, before Miri had left and their little family had dissolved. Miri did not miss those lonely nights when she slept alone, devoid of Alistair's comfort and warmth lest the Taint that ran through his veins be sensed by the other Wardens in the Keep and it be known that the King was not only a bastard but a Warden as well, but she did miss the motley group that had become as dear to her as her own flesh and blood.

She felt her hands curl into fists where they hung at her sides.

They—Alistair, Nathaniel, Anders, Sigrun, Oghren, Velanna—were why she could not fail, why she _would_ not. She would save them all, save them from what she had cursed them with—an heirless kingdom, a gruesome death.

Miri's armored footsteps clinked against the stone as they maneuvered passage after passage, Nathaniel lighter on his feet and more at ease with creeping and lurking than she ever would be. There was the occasional flicker of flame, the opening and shutting of a door from far off in the castle, but that was all that could be heard, silence a wedge between the two companions that had shed blood, sweat and tears side by side once upon a time.

"Velanna," Miri spoke at last. "You've found her?"

Out of the corner of her eye she saw the archer flinch and her heart twisted in agony for the raven-haired man. He had loved her—still loved her.

"Yes," Nathaniel said after a pregnant pause. "Despite her intentions for me— _us—_ not to, we've found her."

"The Architect?"

Nathaniel nodded. "She's with him."

"And Seranni?"

Nathaniel shook his head.

"….I see."

Silence again reigned supreme between them as Miri digested this information. Velanna was alive and so was The Architect. Seranni may or may not be, but seeing as how The Architect was still in one piece and Velanna sighted _with_ rather than _against_ him…

"I wish you'd reconsider," Nathaniel said, interrupting Miri's thoughts.

Miri blinked, a sad smile stretching her lips, and nudged his arm playfully. "Sorry, Nate. Sigrun's my rogue on this one. Where we're going, blades will be worth more than arrows. Why? Jealous?"

The rogue raised an eyebrow, giving the smaller woman a sideways glance. "Hardly. I've had enough of the Deep Roads to last a lifetime. I'd just feel better knowing you had someone _competent_ with you."

Miri's smile spread, became genuine, a spark lighting in her dead eyes. "So the truth comes out at long last. You think I'm incompetent, that years sitting on my behind dealing with stuffy nobles has dulled my blade."

"I—that's not what— _Miri_." Nathaniel's expression darkened reproachfully, though a hint of amusement could be seen gleaming in his eyes. "Your blade may have dulled, but your wit is sharp as ever, I see. Thank the Maker Darkspawn can be simply be insulted to death."

The Queen broke out in laughter, damning the need for secrecy. She had missed this. She had missed _him_. The pair stopped walking as she broke out in a raucous cacophony of joy, her nerves frayed at the end and welcoming this bit of a diversion. Nathaniel stood still as a statue, only moving to support his former Warden-Commander as she rested her head against his breastplate, tears slipping from her eyes and dotting the floor.

"Nathan..." Her voice wavered."I want you to know, I—"

" _Don't_ ," Nathan cut her off. "Don't you bloody say it."

Miri clamped her mouth shut. Not many could get away with ordering her around like that—Queen or not—but there had been too much they had been through together for her to be angry with him.

"Are you sure you can handle him?" she asked instead.

"The King?" Nathaniel scoffed. "If it was the other way around— _you_ coming after _him_ — _then_ I'd be worried."

Miri snorted. "Yes. I suppose that's true."

At last they reached the door that led to the stables.

"I'm missing a mage from this little expedition of mine. Too bad you're not a mage," Miri quipped as Nathaniel put a hand on the wooden door.

Nathaniel grinned. "Not quite. I've got you a mage, from Kirkwall." Miri raised an eyebrow. "A former Ferelden, no less."

"Oh?"

Nathaniel pushed open the door and Miri's eyes fell on a girl with long, curly, coal-colored hair that stood by a horse with bags hanging off its saddle, stroking it across the nose comfortingly.

"Miri!"

"Boss!"

At Sigrun's and Oghren's joyous shouts, the girl turned around, her amber eyes meeting Miri's.

"Miri, I'd like to introduce you to Bethany Hawke."

/ /

Faster. He needed to go faster.

King Alistair spurred his horse onward with a kick. His knee twinged at the act and he suppressed a grimace; an old battle wound, nothing more. Just behind him he could hear his wife's beloved mabari panting hard, struggling to keep up with the stallion upon which he rode, and beyond that the clamor of his guardsmen on horseback. He hadn't intended for this entourage to follow him and he could still hear Bann Teagen's shouts ringing in his ears, commanding him—commanding _him_ , the King of Ferelden!—to come back.

The bed had still been warm when he'd awoken with the gut feeling that something was very, very wrong. The letter he had found had proved his suspicions and he'd barely had the mind to throw on clothes before he'd stumbled out of his chamber with a ruckus that had woken the whole castle. As it was he'd forgotten his smallclothes and his pants were riding up uncomfortably, catching in all the wrong places.

Rain pelted him mercilessly with icy slaps across his face, but he did not slow, did not stop. He had to reach her before she was gone, before she left him and went to what would surely be her death.

 _She's Miriana Cousland-Theirin, slayer of Archdemons and things that go bump in the night. She'll be fine; she'll make it back from this_ , he told himself. _Just let her go, let her do this. Trust her, as you've always trusted her before you hulking buffoon._

Yet he could not, _would_ not let her go. He trusted her, trusted that she'd do everything in her power to make it back to him, and, Maker, was his wife fierce, but still…!

His heart raced as the landscape sped by, the road alternating between broken stone, grass, and rock. He was soaked to the bone, skin slick with perspiration and the heaven's tears, his breath coming in ragged puffs and gasps as his chest burned with fear.

The galloping hooves of his guards' horses faded as they fell more and more behind their frantic King, and even the mabari's slobbering pants grew distant. The steed beneath Alistair seemed to sense his urgency and feed on his terror, for never before had the former Warden ridden a beast so fast. Still, he feared it wasn't fast enough, and he choked at the thought, tears stinging his eyes.

"My love, wait for me. Please, please wait for me."


End file.
